


I Forgot When I Started to Sink

by MinminAmbus



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: But Also!, Cuddle Pile, Hope, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Poisoning, This was called ‘Ummm Gay People’ in google docs., Typical SG Autobot stuff, hopelessness, light in the darkness fools!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:39:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinminAmbus/pseuds/MinminAmbus
Summary: In a darker and less kind version of the Lost Light, it is so difficult to find a kind face to turn to, no matter who you are. You could be the captain of the ship, a commanding officer, or a guard. It wouldn’t matter. Megatron, though very much a prisoner here, believes that it all should change, and that it *can* change for the better. It’s strange that he’s only realizing this now.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	I Forgot When I Started to Sink

Megatron would have smiled at this. He was among others with the same brand on their chests. They were calm, still. Sleeping, in fact. Now that he really looked at it, this was a cuddle pile. He had one mech to his right, his arm wrapped around another, and one curled up like a mechanimal by his pedes… It would have been great, if it weren’t for a single detail. The thing about single details is that they may seem insignificant. Small. Petty. But like in mathematics — Was it sad to compare this to mathematics for a shred of validation? — one factor, an outlier, can skew a whole set of data. What was the outlying factor here?

Autobots. He was surrounded by Autobots. The brand that was forced to make a home on his chest was a sickly and bright purple. Megatron stared down at it. He felt his venting stall at the sight of it. It felt so wrong having it there. He could still feel the burning of the brand on his chassis. The feeling of all optics on him as he bowed down to that tyrant Prime, feeling as if he had no control over his own movements (he did, he did, but everything in his body screamed _NO_ ). His ember felt like it could have burst from its casing, letting out its light in a holy rejection of this. It was sickening. Sickening beyond words. 

He looked to his left to shake his mind from it. The brand was always something his optics focused on if left unattended for too long. Megatron had an arm gently wrapped around a commander of the Lost Light, Minimus Ambus. The larger mech’s brow furrowed at the sight of him. 

Minimus was soundly sleeping — so soundly that Megatron couldn’t unwrap his pink servos from around his own larger hand — there was no problem with this. Megatron, as much as he was conflicted about it, was glad to see the little mech getting recharge. No, no, the issue didn’t rest there. That’s not what caused Megatron’s expression to sour. The problem was in Minimus while he was awake. It was the very reason why Megatron was in his habsuite in the first place.

Minimus had not arrived at his shift on the bridge. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but typically, there was a flurry of messages that were enough to persuade anyone to take his place. While Megatron was not a captain — or even a commanding officer — he took note of this. No one else seemed to take notice — how could they? They were trained to only care about themselves, whether by the Autobot regime or by the course of life itself. Regardless, he found himself at Minimus’ habsuite, having to key in an entry code because the minibot just wouldn’t answer the door. 

He found Minimus curled up on his berth, the only light in the room coming from his pink and yellow biolights. His golden optics flickered like he desperately needed rest, and he looked like he’d been crying. He was still wiping away tears, even when Megatron stepped into his habsuite. The minibot did not wave. Megatron had nearly tripped on something on his way to Minimus; an empty bottle of engex. The sticky spot beside it meant that some of it had spilled out, but _still_ , this was a lot of engex for such a little mech. There was a thought to bring him to a medic to have his vitals checked but it was quickly forgotten when a muffled sob escaped Minimus. Like a reflex, Megatron stepped towards him. 

“Minimus—” The little bot cast his gaze onto Megatron when the large mech spoke, nothing behind it. It made Megatron falter momentarily— “What is _wrong_?” 

Minimus pressed a tired — shaky, even — servo on the berth, propping himself up. He curled up once more, in a sitting position rather than a laying one. The minibot took a look at Megatron and gave a weak grin.

“No recharge,” he hummed.

Megatron knew that it had to be deeper than that. This was deeper than the inability to sleep, something that plagued many on this ship. _Something_ pushed him into drinking so much. But Megatron wouldn’t push him into giving an answer. While he had the code to the minibot’s habsuite, he practically had no right to pry. Megatron sighed to himself, prompting a look from Minimus.

This was one of the few things that Minimus _wasn’t_ vocal about, why he turned away from others and towards the bottle in his upset — his _true_ upset, not about little trivial things. Those he could complain and kvetch about, but whatever was going on inside him right now… it was just that. It was his own problem. It saddened Megatron… but it was expected, dreadfully so. There was very little Megatron could offer, and it crossed his processor to _leave_ Minimus. He’d even taken a step backwards, his frame considering the option before his processor could. But no. He could not leave Minimus alone in such a state — Megatron wouldn’t allow _anyone_ to be alone like this. 

And so, the shuttle sat next to the minesweeper, daring to rest a servo on the other’s small shoulder. The minibot leaned into the gentle touch, wrapping his two servos around Megatron’s. 

Megatron might have been hearing things, but he swore Minimus mumbled ‘don’t go.’ So Megatron didn’t. Even when — especially when — Minimus’ vents faltered with tired and restrained sobs, Megatron didn’t go. It was quiet between them, for the exception of their own quiet venting. Even when Minimus slipped into recharge finally, Megatron didn’t go. He made sure that Minimus was completely on his berth, a slightly difficult task when the minibot was clinging to his servo. And still then, Megatron did not go. He even elected to settle into the berth beside him, and before he knew it, his frame’s exhaustion caught up with him.

And then there was Rodimus at his side. The black and purple mech was dwarfed by Megatron. He was clinging onto a piece of Megatron’s hip plating, seemingly for dear life. His frame was curled around the shuttle’s right leg, the speedster’s face pressed into the metal. When Megatron caught the occasional glimpse of his faceplates, he saw an expression scrunched up into something of anger or fear. 

Megatron set a servo onto the speedster’s back, mindful of the low-held, twitching spoilers. It wasn’t to jolt or wake him. It was simply to touch. It couldn’t take anything away, whether it was Rodimus’ nightmare or Megatron’s discomfort at even being here, but the touch of another can be grounding, especially for Cybertronians — a race that relies so much on the connections and readouts of EM fields and electricity. It was still monumentally awkward having Rodimus by his side, no matter how much or little he unfurled his field. He didn’t shoo him off though. How could he, with the way he barged into Minimus’ habsuite?

He keyed in a code of some sort — it could have been the captain’s universal code or Minimus’ own code, Megatron couldn’t have known — and stood in the doorway all smug for a moment. 

“Oh lookie here. If I’d known that you’se two were gettin’ all… ‘ _amicable_ ,’ I woulda glued ya aft to the bridge, Megs!” Rodimus had lowly cackled, sauntering over with his spoilers held high. He crossed his arms at the foot of the berth, still trying to act all domineering over the situation.

The way Rodimus had said ‘amicable’ left Megatron scowling, nearly letting his engine rip out a growl.

“Spare me your mockery, captain,” he whispered (for Minimus’ sake), the formal address leaving his vocalizer like glass, “If you have no reason to be here, then I suggest that you _leave_.”

With an amused huff, Rodimus walked over to the side of the berth, thankfully not on the side where Minimus was recharging. Then the speedster plopped — literally plopped — down on the birth, much to Megatron’s surprise (and annoyance, among other non-so-fond emotions).

“Nah, I’m damn beat. You shoulda seen the bridge shift, it was a mess. Got a whole lot of idiots here. Might as well nap with you’se two cuddlers.” 

Before Megatron could reject — he nearly had the impulse to smack Rodimus away — the dark mech had already made himself comfortable. This left a very _uncomfortable_ Megatron in the middle of the two Autobots. Apparently, his frame surrendered to recharge once more, rather than allowing itself to think on about _Rodimus_ at _his_ side. 

Ah, a movement by his pedes drew Megatron out of his head, and his attention there. Drift was curled up by his pedes… more like _on top_ of them actually. How Megatron didn’t see or hear him enter the room and settle down there, he had _no_ idea. Sometime between Megatron dozing off a second time and now, Drift found his way in here. He was curled up almost like a cybercat — which struck Megatron’s ember _far_ too hard. It reminded him of Ravage and the other minicon cassettes. A dreadfully gentle yet deep jab to the fact that he wasn’t with the Decepticons anymore. Drift held onto one of Rodimus’ servos, choosing to bite on it. Rodimus didn’t seem to mind it at all. His stirring wasn’t related at all to Drift’s unconscious nibbling. It only served to remind Megatron of what an odd relationship those two had. 

_Everyone_ on the ship had an odd relationship with someone it seemed, and despite that, the ship was not a unified front. Megatron knew that the ship wasn’t put together to foster unity in any definition of the word, and it always saddened and angered him to see how divided the ship really was. It was a testament for how bitter and destructive the Autobot ideology left mecha when a god-like leader wasn’t there to bend every whim of the mecha. Watching as mecha bickered and took sparring to an overly violent level was an ember-wrenching thing. 

And oh, how this ship caused Megatron’s ember to dip downwards, like electrons dropping down energy levels as they let go of their energy. Megatron didn’t have high hopes when the war ended, especially for his fellow Decepticons, but looking around the vessel still put him down. How could the Autobots — Optimus mainly, the tyrant with an ember Megatron had tried searching for — cast away a couple hundred of their own mecha onto some ship? Throw them out from society! How could they do such a thing to all these mecha who risked everything for Optimus’ twisted goal? Megatron _couldn’t_ , **_shouldn’t_ **, feel any sort of sympathy for these Autobots, but he just had to acknowledge that the state they’re in was horrible. No wonder why there was no unity on this damn ship.

It made Megatron frown. Inside this nonsense frame, with poisoned energon in his fuel lines, Megatron had every single reason to be upset, to propagate the disharmony. Maybe that’s what was expected of him. They put Primus knows what into his energon to mess with his processor, and they took away the frame — the wings! — that he was so fond of.

Here, all these thoughts came together, uneasy, like actors without any proper stage directions. Here, in Minimus’ over-decorated habsuite, Megatron considered himself. Right here, in the berth far too large for a minibot who often filled it alone, now holding four mecha who would have normally bickered and flipped tables at each other, Megatron considered the ship. Here, with Rodimus, a mech that often sent Megatron glares that would have made a weaker mech wilt, who was now clinging to the shuttle’s side in a recharge flux. With Drift, who would sooner put a bullet through Megatron’s helm than shake his servo. With that — all of that — Megatron stared at his processor like it was an adversary worthy of comparison to Optimus Prime.

With all of these things in front of him, Megatron’s expression changed. It wasn’t a smile — no, no, he couldn’t even get his face to make a smile often these days — it was hope. The Autobot brand on his chest, the sickening purple thing, tore him apart from the inside, out. It had taken away his wings and reformatted his frame. It had forced poison into his mouth, bitter and burning and hot. It had take — no, _stolen_ , it _stole_ — the lives of so many that he held close and dear (and even those who he barely knew)! It had even started tugging on his ember as well, pushing him into the depths of hate and despair. He wouldn’t let it steal anymore. He wouldn’t let it get farther than it already had.

With those three around him, so uncharacteristically serene and calm, Megatron decided that it wouldn’t be wrong to have hope for this ship that was built to sink.

**Author's Note:**

> First fully written piece in a while! Expect a few more, as it is a goal of mine to finish a couple of WIP writing pieces! Thank you so much for reading! (If there’s any shenanigans you’d like to see with the SG gang, let me know!)


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